Blessed Lord, our souls are longing

Blessed Lord, our souls are longing Thee, our risen Head, to see; And the cloudless morning's dawning, When Thy saints shall gathered be Grace and glory, All our well-springs are in Thee.

All the sorrow we are tasting Is but as the dream of night: To the day of God we're hasting, Looking for it with delight; Thou art coming, This will satisfy our sight.

True, the silent grave is keeping Many a seed in weakness sown: But the saints, in Thee now sleeping, Raised in power shall share Thy throne, Resurrection! Lord of Glory! ' Tis Thine own.

As we sing, our hearts grow lighter; We are children of the day; Sorrow makes our hope the brighter; Faith regards not the delay; Sure the promise! We shall meet Thee on the way.